The Bell Rings

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Sitting. Still. Mind wandering.

Thoughts come and go, space in-between.

Adjusting form, swishing cloth. A cough.

Stomach gurgling, like a trumpeting crane.

Spine straight, thumbs lightly touching.

Tires crunching gravel, muffled radio from within.

A raven croaks, “Good morning.

I am here. I am awake.”

I am all of this, suchness.

It is all me, ephemera.

Narrow chasms open to wide spaces.

The bell rings and I bow.

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One Comment on “The Bell Rings”

  1. The LaFevers says:

    Reblogged this on Wild Home Economics and commented:

    A poem coming to you from Witless Wanderings of Nibbling Sheep.


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